


Off the Books

by thefilthiestpiglet



Series: 4F Rogers (comics + fics) [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 4F, A preponderance of HYDRA dicks, Alternate Universe, HYDRA Trash Party, I'm not gonna warn so just expect a lot of typical HYDRA Trash Party stuff, M/M, Multi, everything is dubious consent at best, lots of people getting beat up, well mostly bucky and steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8623525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet/pseuds/thefilthiestpiglet
Summary: When Steve Rogers volunteered for the assignment with the Howling Commandos, he expected there to be a lot of marching, sure.  And of course he has to do his pro-boy duties of getting-fucked-in-the-ass-so-that-no-one-catches-anything.  But he didn't expect he'd also have to keep so many things off the books.Or: Getting fucked by various HYDRA is hell on bookkeeping.





	1. Seven

**Author's Note:**

> A year ago, I wanted to write HYDRA/4F!Steve porn. Then I realized 2 things: (1) I don't like writing porn, and (2) I first needed to write the context of 4F!Steve and Bucky's relationship. (Hence [His Pro-boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193).) I still don't like writing porn, but eh, might as well.
> 
> Will alternate between chapters where Steve gets HYDRA dick, and interludes where awkward talking happens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can't fail -- it's his one chance to prove that to the Howling Commandos that he's worth keeping around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This directly follows [this comic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3248345), shortly after Steve got assigned to the Howlers.

Sarge worries his lip for the fifth time in as many minutes. "Are you sure about this, Rogers?"

Steve nods, putting as much conviction into it as he could. He's certain he wants to do this. He's not certain if it'll work, or if he'll come out of it alive. But that's never stopped him from picking fights with bullies back in Brooklyn. It didn't stop him from volunteering for this field assignment with the Howling Commandos, for that matter. "It's just going to be fifteen minutes. Just the length of a normal session back at the London pro station."

Sarge looks unconvinced by his bravado. Well, figures, since the Howlers just wanted someone to suck their cocks, not someone with crazy ideas. But Steve didn't spend the day convincing everyone, just to lose this chance. Steve ducks out of their hiding place before Sarge has a chance to go back to his original plan of attack. 

Of course, this means that he trips and falls flat on his face as he emerges from the bushes. Steve feels his cheeks burn as he gets up. They're probably snickering right now, laughing at how a runt like him would even think to come to the front lines like this. The fairy's getting uppity, as the guys back home would say.

Well, joke's on them, because that was a great way to get the attention of the HYDRA guards without raising their suspicions. Steve picks noisily through the last few feet of underbrush towards the small clearing where the men are guarding the base. He feels their eyes tracking him, and he stops to pick his nose before looking up and pretending to suddenly notice the guards.

One of them, the squad leader, judging by his insignia, yells out a short "Hey boy, what are you doing here?" in German.

Steve tries to look as innocuous and stupid as possible as he replies, "Hello, sir! I think I'm lost. Do you know where I can find my mom?"

His French isn't great, since he learned most of it from library books. But he's been listening to Jones and Dernier, and practicing when he does his prep in the forest. That, and he figured their French is probably worse. It must pass muster, because the guy turns towards another guard and says, "What's with this kid? He stupid or something?"

The other guard chuckles, then addresses Steve in rudimentary French. "Hey, boy. What's your mom like? Maybe we'll help you find her."

Steve looks around. The other five guards are still focused on scanning the trees for potential enemies. A silly lost boy is not enough to attract the focused attention of all of them. On the other hand... Steve says a small internal apology to his ma and the girls back at the London station before starting in on his story.

"My mom is really pretty. So pretty that I have lots of dads who spend time with her. Will you help me find her? She wants me to help her make all of my dads happy."

The guard laughs and ribs the leader. "You hear that, Franz? His mom's a whore." His eyes turn predatory as he turns back to Steve. "He might be one, too."

The guard pulls out his cock, and says in crude French as he waves it at Steve, "Hey boy, know what to do with this?"

Steve nods and gets down on his knees. Takes a deep breath as he surreptitiously checks the guard's cock for signs of disease. Down here, a cock is just a cock, and Steve lets training take over. It's not fully erect, so he gives it a few pulls before taking it in his mouth. He works the cock up and down, uses his tongue to accent the sensation, and in a few moments, he feels gloved hands grab his hair. After that it was just a matter of holding on as the man rutted into his mouth. Steve swallows, since it's easier and cleaner than the alternatives, and for a moment, everything feels like a normal workday.

Then he looks up.

The other guards are all gathered around him, in various stages of pulling out their cocks, cold lust on their faces.

This was what Steve was angling for the whole time, but he couldn't help the tendril of dread clenching his stomach. He's not in a back alley fight in Brooklyn, where he mostly had to contend with knives. These guys all had guns that could vaporize someone with a single hit. And this isn't pro station work, either. These guys aren't about to sign his log book or follow any protocols. This could go bad, very quickly. And he has to keep their attention for 15 minutes so that the Howlers could slip into the base.

It's one thing to make plan while carefully prepping his ass in the quiet of the forest. It's quite another to feel hands yank his butt up and pull his pants down. The process pops off a button, and Steve is too busy trying to check out the sanitation status of the dick being thrust into his mouth to track where it went. He barely has time to properly wrap his mouth around the new cock when the man from behind pushes into him in one stroke.

Despite all the prep, Steve still feels something split back there, and with a cock in his mouth, he couldn't bite down on the yelp of pain that escapes from his throat. He hears several chuckles around him.

Steve focuses on the laughter as they begin to pound him on both ends. These are bullies who get off on other people's pain. And he's met plenty of those. Never been fucked by bullies before, but this isn't him losing the fight. This is him winning the fight. He's keeping seven squids busy so that the Howlers can take down the base. He used to get split lips and bloody knuckles from fighting bullies, and a bloody asshole is no different. This is his contribution to the plan. To the war effort. Steve calms himself and works to breathe around the cock in his mouth.

As a third cock enters his already-bloody ass, Steve reminds himself that Sarge and the others just need fifteen minutes. Sure, there's more guys and they don't care about his wellbeing, but as he told Barnes, fifteen minutes is just one session. And it's not like Dugan hadn't gotten impatient in the middle of the night before. He's dealt with worse pain.

The man in his mouth pulls out and comes on Steve's face, smirking as he does it. The others hoot, and the forms around Steve shifts as another takes his place. Cock number 3 is still pounding him from behind, which makes it hard to line up with the man in front of him. The man yanks at Steve's ears to position him, and the sharp sparks of pain distracts him from the pounding in his ass. Steve lets out a yelp, and hears more chuckling. The man that had just finished reappears to Steve's left, smoking a new cigarette and casually palming his cock. Good. Keep them focused on him. Steve lets out a few more moans, playing up the pain. It feels weird, but it seems to work: instead of turning around to stub out his cigarette, the guy grinds it out on Steve's back.

The guy in his mouth comes around Steve's scream of pain. More laughter as Cock number 3 slaps Steve's ass and tells Cigarette Bastard, "He tightened up real nicely, you should do it again!"

So they do. Steve ignores the pain and gets to work on the new cock in his mouth. He's always wanted to do his part fighting the Nazis, and if the US government thinks his ass is the only part of him that's fit to serve ... well, Steve's making the best of it.

  


There's a new cock in his ass (number four), when it happens: a few shots and grunts, and suddenly all of the guards around him and in him are slumping down toward the ground. It was over so quickly Steve barely had time to bite down hard on the guy in his mouth before he is buried under a pile of dead squids. As he struggles to extricate himself, he hears Sarge give efficient commands for the others to do a final check in of the base and surrounds. Wow. No wonder there are comics about these guys. In the two weeks he's been with them, Steve's mostly seen them fuck him, drink and play cards. But maybe, if he can keep coming along on missions with them, one day he might... A hand reaches out and pulls him free of the guy weighing him down. 

"You okay, Rogers?" The Sarge doesn't seem happy to see him, eyebrows creasing into a frown.

Steve curses himself for getting distracted trying to find the bullet wounds on the guards, and hurries to pull his pants back up and his shirt back down. He has to hold his pants up because of that stupid button, and there's still some blood oozing out of his ass, but Steve does his best to stand straight. "I'm A-okay, Sarge. Gimme a sec to clean up, and I'll be ready for night shift." Night shift's going to hurt, but Steve knows his primary function. 

Sarge grimaces at Steve's face. Oh, that. Steve wipes the semen off with the back of his sleeve. Can't do anything about the black eye, though. He glares at Barnes. "Sarge, I said I can do night shift. Your guys don't need to look at my face for that, do they? My mouth works just fine."

"Yeah, Rogers, I can tell your mouth works just fine." Oh no. Is Barnes upset? Steve's mouth has a way of getting him in trouble -- he lost that clerking job in winter of '37 because he told Mr. Fitzpatrick off.

But Steve isn't good at apologizing, so he just stares sullenly up at Sarge. Worst thing that could happen is that Sarge send him back to London. 

It's the Sarge who breaks eye contact first. "I was just asking if you're okay. I saw some bruises, wondered if you'd need Jones' med kit."

Oh.

Steve hadn't had someone be concerned about *his* health in so long that he'd forgotten that was a thing.

Steve takes stock -- black eye, some minor burns, bruises in the usual places. "Um.... I should be fine. No broken bones, no ..." And then a thought hits him, and he scrambles to check the cocks of the four squids who'd fucked him. Clean... clean...clean....

The last guy is lying face down, where he'd fallen on top of Steve. Steve strains to roll the guy over, but then an arm reaches over him and flips the guy easily.

"He hurt you." Sarge is frowning at the guard's cock, still tinted red from fucking Steve's bloody ass.

Steve shrugged, "Doesn't matter. I need to check if he's clean or not. If he isn't..." They'll have to send him home, and not just to London. *Home* home. The tiny bare room with the one chair, for when Arnie stops by. Where all he can do is twiddle his thumbs while everyone else went to war.

Steve heaves a sigh of relief when he discovers that the guy is also clean.

"You want to stay in the war that bad, huh?"

Steve looks up to find the Sarge giving him an odd expression. "You shake off all the stuff that they did to you, and only panic when you think you might'a caught something."

Steve is saved from having to explain as the other guys return from their perimeter check. Better this way -- Steve hates the look of pity he gets when folks hear about his ma.

Morita claps him on the back, and Jones smiles at him. As if getting fucked by 7 Nazis was some sort of accomplishment, when they've probably killed hundreds of them by now. Steve finds heat rising to his cheeks, and busies himself with getting stuff ready for the march back to camp. He retrieves his pack from the bushes where he'd stowed it, and co-ops a HYDRA belt to keep his pants up. It's really a pity about the pants button, but if he wants to keep up with the Howlers... 

"Here." Sarge rips off one of the buttons on his jacket. "Sew it on when we get back."

Steve fingers the button, hesitant. It's blue. One of the few colors that he can see. From what he could tell, Barnes liked to dress neat. To rip off a button like that...

"Think of it as earning your first stripe," Sarge mutters before moving to the front of the line.

Well then. Steve can't help a small chuckle as he rushes to catch up. Appropriate that his first stripe is something to hold his pants up.


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentle, non-porny interlude with Steve and Bucky.

"Sarge, I have a problem."

Barnes looked over at Steve from where he sat, writing his reports for the missions they just finished. "What is it, Rogers?"

Steve hesitated. He didn't like bringing up this sort of thing when he's sharing a tent with Sarge -- it felt like he was gaming the system, somehow. After all, a normal pro-boy would have to go through proper channels. He's in the tent to sleep and be fucked, not to mess with the chain of command.

Barnes raised an eyebrow. "Rogers? Spit it out or go back to sleep." Sarge always kept sleep and work separate, and only fucked Steve when he's on a shift. And now Steve's going to mess with all that.

Steve sighed. They were due back at base tomorrow, and he'd procrastinated enough. "Sarge, I need to get my log book stamped when I get back to base, and ... well, I have been doing some things off the books this time around." Off the books like getting fucked by half a dozen HYDRA guards. 

Barnes nodded solemnly. "Thanks for bringing that up." He waved his stack of papers, and Steve's heart sank. "I'm gonna try filing a report, maybe ask for..."

Steve rushed to cut in, "'Scuse me, Sarge, but maybe you could... not? I mean, I know I'm supposed to report when I engage with non-authorized personnel, but they won't take kindly to fraternizing with the enemy." 

A small voice in him wanted to laugh and rage at the coded language of the army. How all of the individual action is erased in words like "engage" and "fraternize." How everything needs to be regulation, when there are god-damn people behind each standardized helmet.

But he's not playing armchair general back in Brooklyn, and out here, with mud caked in his socks and wearing a jacket peeled off of a HYDRA goon -- he just wants to do whatever he can to stay with the Howlers. He knows he's not one of them, but they've treated him well. Jones who thanks him for cooking and cleaning, Morita who sometimes laugh at his jokes. Dernier who lets him watch while he fiddled with explosives. Sarge who let him do what he can to help with the missions. This is as close to being on the front lines as he can get. And if staying here meant erasing everything non-regulation about himself from the reports -- well, that's what he'll do.

Sarge frowned. "Non-authorized personnel? That's what you're calling those filthy HYDRA bastards?"

Steve runs back their conversation in his head -- Sarge said he was filing a report about it, and that he wanted to ask for...

Steve felt a cold knot in his stomach, was Sarge planning on asking for a transfer anyway? He's been looking at Steve funny ever since that mission. He'd canceled Steve's shifts for 3 days. Sure, Steve'd kept himself busy with laundry and cooking, but ... Steve'd seen those looks of concern before. Usually directed at Arnie -- worried that the "wrong sort of people" would contaminate the neighborhood. Or directed at him when folks thought he was a fairy, or just unfit. Steve clenched his fists. If Sarge didn't want him, thought he was dirty for getting fucked by those 'filthy HYDRA bastards'... 

"All due respect, Sarge, just because I got some HYDRA dick in me doesn't mean I'm suddenly filthy or contaminated and need to be traded in. I made sure they're clean -- you were there. And I know the team prefers a girl, but I do my fair share -- I work my shifts, and sure, I make the marches longer, but I shorten camp time so I haven't delayed you even once. Hell, I can't eat half the stuff that's in my rations anyway, so that's more food for everyone else..."

"Is that why you do that thing where you trade your chocolate for cigarettes that you don't smoke?" So Sarge's noticed. Maybe Steve wasn't as subtle as he thought when he passed his cigarettes around the campfire. Well, no use denying it, if Sarge wants to trade him in.

Steve gestured at his pro-boy tag. They had to use a smaller typeset for the back, just to fit in all of his ailments. (Not even Steve's illnesses are regulation. He's just lucky that he didn't have any of the VDs, due to him being a virgin and all.) "I'm allergic to caffeine, sir. It's not on my tag because it's not relevant to me getting my job done." Steve remembered the enlistment nurse's deepening frown as she watched him fill out the form, and deciding to drop a couple of the less-important ones, like minor food allergies and color-blindness.

Sarge lifted up his pen. "Well, it's still something I'd like to know -- I've been worried that you haven't been eating enough, and now I know why."

Steve watched as Barnes added a few more damning lines to his report, and suddenly all the fight goes out of him. It's like getting his fifth 4F rating. Like Arnie laughing at his repeated attempts. Like twenty years of whispers of "unfit" behind his back. "Whatever you want, sir."

Steve crawled back into his bedroll and tried to sleep. He'll feel better in the morning. In the morning he'll get back in the fight, prove that he's worth keeping. But right now...

Steve felt a warm, solid hand on his shoulder. "Rogers." Barnes was suddenly next to him, and this time Steve noticed how close they were. "Rogers," the Sarge continued. "You need to stop tilting at windmills. We're *not* trading you in. Just the opposite. I've written a report detailing all the extra work you've been putting in, what with the cooking and washing. You're a pro-boy, so you can't get promoted, but maybe I can get them to stop docking your medicines from your pay. Let you send more money home." Sarge smiled at him. "And thanks to your input just now, I've made sure to ask for some alternative rations, and also keep off your -uh- HYDRA encounter."

Steve swallowed the laughter of relief that threatened to bubble out of him, and didn't bother pointing out that he doesn't really have anyone to send money to. "Thanks, Sarge."

Barnes gave him a gentle pat on the head before turning back to his papers. Steve's hackles rose at the patronizing gesture, but then he thought about the report that Barnes just wrote. And the way he asked about Steve's health after the mission. Even the three days' break and the concerned looks.

As Steve burrowed deeper into his bedroll, he felt his shoulders relax for the first time since he joined up. Possibly for the first time since '35 when his ma first started coughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly I just needed Steve to be more relaxed and things to normalize a bit with the Howlies. Steve is hard enough to write without having to write defensive!Steve. Defensive!Steve has observation skills worth jack.
> 
> (Also because I left my notes at home and forgot which HYDRA gang bang was supposed to be the next one.)
> 
> Chronologically, this would be followed by Chapter 1 by His Pro-boy: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193/chapters/12123617>


	3. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one guard this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after [Chapter 2 of His Pro-boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193/chapters/12123716).

He's seeing double from getting clocked in the head, which means Sarge's frown looks twice as worried. Steve would snort and say "I'm fine," but there's too much blood in his mouth. So instead, he turns and spits the blood in the guard's face.

He gets a moment of stunned silence and a few German curses before he gets knocked down again, and kicked a few times in the ribs. But given the look on the guy's face, Steve got the better end of that exchange: the guard is angry, and angry means irrational. Angry means mistakes.

Behind him, he hears Sarge make a small choked sound, and Steve spares him a glance, surprised. Sarge had seen him get in fights before. Picked him up after one a few towns back. He should know that Steve can handle this. Had handled worse. It's just a few cracked ribs and a bloody nose. Sure, it hurts, but what doesn't?

Sarge is in the opposite corner, heavy chains wound double from his arms to the ceiling so that he is dangling a few feet in the air, with no leverage to use his superior strength. The men who had captured them had muttered some stuff about a Dr. Zola and his specific instructions, and Steve can see the strain that Sarge is under, his breaths running shallow and his entire body hanging limp. Compared to that, Steve has it easy with a single 2-foot chain securing his right wrist to the corner. The chain that the guard is using to drag him back up for another round of beatings.

Okay, now it's not just his nose that's bloody.

As Steve slowly gathers the strength to stand up again (because standing back up is the only way to stop bullies, his body be damned), he hears Sarge say softly from behind him, "Rogers, take care of yourself, all right?" And Steve suddenly remembers that he's part of something bigger, now. Can't just throw himself into every fight because no one's around to care if he dies. The US Army needs him to be a prophylactic auxiliary. And the Howlers ... well, he cooks for them and marches with them and gets fucked by them, which is almost like being one of them. And he already holds them back enough with his bad back and his asthma, so the cracked ribs... Steve curses internally. 

"'M fine." Steve wonders if Sarge is telling him to stay down, avoid more blows by surrendering. But it feels weird, and habit pushes Steve back up. "Just some light bruises, Sarge. Nothing serious."

Sarge chuckles weakly. "Of course, Rogers. Just ... don't die on me."

There's something in Sarge's voice that makes the guard guffaw. He gives Steve another shove before walking up to the Sarge. Gets right up in his face and mutters something. Steve's German isn't great, but the words "homosexual deviant" are pretty hard to miss. 

And with that, Steve's back on his feet. "Hey you!" Steve yells in German. "Leave Sarge alone! He's not a deviant!" Steve pauses, trying to figure out if he should dignify the guard with a further explanation of "I'm just the closest thing they've got to a vagina." But his words have the desired effect: he has the guard's attention again. 

Steve feels the guard's eyes slide across his body with new interest. "Ah yes, *you* are the homosexual." He walks back to Steve and yanks Steve against him. Grabs roughly at Steve's ass. "The corrupter."

Steve bites his lips and stays silent. At least this way, he's distracting the guard without getting more hurt, which is what Sarge wants, right? Maybe it's time for his ego to take a few punches instead of his body. Besides, Steve tells himself. Everyone else thinks he's a fairy anyway, what's the harm of another?

The guard leans out the cell door and hollers, and soon, a few more guards troop in, accompanied by raucous laughter. Steve's heart sinks. More guards means harder to escape.

"We're going to fuck your boy," the guard says to Sarge. Hands push Steve down, while others position his ass and tug down his pants. One man is pressing his face into the cold floor, and he feels more more hands slapping and pulling at his ass. Rough leather gloves are spreading his ass cheeks and he feels a gloved thumb pressing in.

  


"I'm not his boy." Steve says as he kicks reflexively. All he gets are knees that pin his legs down, another kick to his ribs, and an extra hand to grind his face into the floor. Then he feels the familiar push of a cock against his hole, while someone above him taunts, "How does it feel, Sergeant, to see your lover reduced to a prostitute?"

Well, joke's on them, because he's not Sarge's lover to begin with. And all things considered, getting fucked by these guys is much easier than getting punched by these guys. After all, he's got official US government training on the former. Maybe Sarge does have a point -- there are other ways to win. It won't even be the first time Sarge's seen him with his ass full of HYDRA dick.

Steve tries his best to relax the correct muscles against the first cock shoving its way in dry. He can do this. If he plays his cards right, more guards can mean more *distracted* guards. He hears a ring of keys jangle somewhere near him. Getting fucked by HYDRA is never fun, and shit for paperwork, but ...

Steve risks looking up at the Sarge, even though that brings a fresh round of hoots from the guards. "Sarge?" Steve winces a bit as the man starts sawing in and out, shooting pain up and down his bruised body. "Tell me if any of them aren't clean, will ya?"

Sarge's face is blank and his eyes seem to look past Steve. But he still jerks his head in a quick nod.

"Thanks." Steve manages to offer a shaky smile before turning back to the task at hand: staring at the floor and taking deep, even breaths. The jolts of pain have evened out into broad rolling waves, and soon, Steve knows his entire body will just be one long scream of it, from the concussion to the cracked ribs to the sore and scraped limbs and the bloody ass. That's okay, he just has to breathe through it. Focus on the sound of the jangling keys. Bite his lips and never give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. 

Except that there *is* a scream, wild and feral, from the opposite corner of the cell. And suddenly the guards are drawing their guns and batons and staring at ... Steve looks up just in time to see the Sarge, arms still chained together, fall to the ground, a large hole in the ceiling where the chain used to be bolted. 

Then the Sarge is moving.

He'd heard about Sarge's strength before -- whispers and hints around the campfire and in the newsreels. And sometimes, when the Howlers get back from a particularly bloody mission, Steve'd picture the Sarge, calmly taking down the bad guys with a few strategically aimed bullets and punches. But he'd never imagined this. With a wild howl, Sarge charges straight at the closest guard, ignoring the three bullets that hit him from various directions. A swing with his chained arms bashes the guard's head in, and then he turns and punches said hands, still covered in brain matter, straight through another guy's guts. Wraps his chain around a third and pulls, hard, and Steve hears a neck or spine snap. Kicks the gun and the jaw off of the fourth guy, then body-slams into the fifth, the one who still had his pants down.

The resulting silence stretches as Steve takes in the warm slick of blood dripping down his leg, the gurgling from the guy by Steve's foot and in the middle of it all, Sarge's heaving form.

Steve knows he should be scared -- Sarge's pupils are dilated, and his left arm is dangling oddly, barely held up by the chains around his wrists. And he had just brutally killed five people in about as many breaths. He could probably snap Steve's body in half with his pinky. But instead Steve just wants to reach out and...

"Sarge?" Steve's right wrist is still shackled to the wall, so he waves with his left, ignoring the protests from his ribs. "Is your arm dislocated? If you come here, I can maybe help reset it."

Sarge jerks at the sound of Steve's voice, and blinks, turning towards Steve with those dark eyes of his. Steve forces himself to stare back. And suddenly, like someone'd flipped a switch, the soft, concerned look is back as Sarge straightens and takes in the state of the room. "Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I had all this backstory about how they got stuck without all the other Howlies, which is that Steve had to stay at base an extra half day for tests and inspections, and also to wait for his medicine to come in. Anyway, in case you were wondering .... now you know.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a month after the previous chapter, but still before [Chapter 3 of His Pro-Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193/chapters/12432392).

Sarge didn't say a word about what happened that day -- not when Steve almost tripped on one of the bodies on the way out, not when he paused at a stream to wash off the blood stains and dig out the bullets, and not when Dugan gave him a dubious look when they finally caught up with the Howlers at nightfall.

And Steve ... well, there's enough of the war that's staying off his record book, and this was just one more thing. And the more he's gotten to know the Howlers in the month since, the more this seems de rigeur. By all rights none of the Howlers should be there. Gabe who is too well-educated for a colored man. Morita who is both too American and too Japanese. Dugan, who hates the war but loves the battle. Dernier and Falsworth are in the wrong Army altogether. And yet, here they all are. So if Sarge doesn't want to talk, Steve's happy enough to talk to him about the Dodgers instead.

He almost forgets about it, between the poker games, the work shifts, and the endless marching. And whatever spare chance he gets, Sarge makes him practice his marksmanship. Steve's not officially allowed a weapon, so he has to learn to shoot with whatever they salvage from various raids. It's pretty fun, figuring out which pistols take the Browning Short and which ones take the 9mm Luger.

But even when he could load in under 5 seconds and shoot a helmet from 50 paces, Sarge still isn't satisfied. 

Steve bites his lip as he loads the Mauser. "C'mon, Sarge. Let me help with this next mission. I can just be a spotter, or help you load your guns. Won't even have to shoot anything."

"No. What if someone rushes you at 30 miles an hour? You won't be able to defend yourself." Sarge walks out to reset the helmet.

Steve laughs as Sarge returns. "Sarge, no one can come at me that fast. And I'm sure if they're rushing me in a Panzer, shooting's not going to help."

Sarge runs his hands through his hair and sighs in exasperation. "I'm not talking about tanks, Rogers. I'm talking about me."

Oh.

The dying gurgle of the guard at his feet. The warm blood dripping down his leg, his pants still pooled around his ankles. Sarge's shoulders rising up and down, the left side a bit lower than the right.

That.

Sarge is looming over him. When did he get so close? Gently, he reaches over, pulls up the loaded Mauser still in Steve's hand, and jams the muzzle into his chest, right where his heart is. Says firmly, "And if I attack you, you need to hit me right here. Better bet than shooting the brain."

Steve stares the Mauser. This is the gun that Sarge had shoved in his hands as they made their escape. The barrel is gripped firmly in Sarge's hands. Those hands had been buried deep in a guard's chest cavity, wrapped in chains and dripping with blood. And at the very end of the barrel -- a blue button on Sarge's jacket. Sarge gave him a button, once. That first time. Steve imagines pulling the trigger, the bullet ripping through the button, the jacket, the chest. Steve shakes his head and lets go of the gun. "But... you're not going to hurt me. You *didn't* hurt me."

"Rogers. You don't know that. *I* don't know that." Sarge growls in frustration. "Look... I don't remember what happens, all right? I don't even remember how I got the 107th out of Azzano. They gave me a fucking medal for something that I don't remember." Sarge shoves the Mauser back into Steve's hands. "So I can't control it. And when I'm like that, like a fucking rabid dog... well, there's only one surefire way to stop me."

And now it suddenly makes sense, the way that Sarge is so hesitant to sleep near him, how he just about tore the tent down that one night. But just because it makes sense doesn't make it right.

"No."

Sarge blinks. Steve watches as the exasperation transforms into cold anger between Sarge's brows. "What the fuck, Rogers? Do you need me to pull rank? Fine. If you can't shoot me, you are not fit to be with this unit." 

Steve holds Sarge's gaze. Two months ago he would have backed down, cowed by Sarge's rank and lulled by his own desire to serve. A month ago he would have begged to stay. But now he's played enough rounds of poker and listened to enough stories around the campfire to know that what binds the Howlers together isn't their prowess as soldiers or their hatred of HYDRA, but the fact that they're all shit at being in the Army. Shit at following commands that make no fucking sense. 

"Respectfully, sir -- if you don't remember what you were like, how can you decide that you were unsafe to be around? I was there, I saw you, and as the guy who actually remembers it, I'm saying here, respectfully, that you would not have hurt me. Nor any of the Howlers, for that matter."

Sarge glares at him. Steve squares his shoulders and glares back. Heck, if Dugan could go round-for-round with Sarge, all with his cock still in Steve's ass, Steve should be able to do this. "You can send me back to the pro-station if you want, sir. But that'd be a stupid move for a hundred reasons, and you know that." 

Steve hefts his Mauser, aims at the helmet, and shoots.

When he looks back at the Sarge, the anger on his face has melted into resignation. Sarge reaches over and ruffles Steve's hair. "Fine, Rogers. Have it your way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I keep wanting them to be on better terms, but they're still getting to know each other at this stage. (And Bucky is So. Careful.)


	5. Twenty six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Howlers get caught with their pants down.
> 
> Takes place after [Ch 3 of His Pro-Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193/chapters/12432392), but before [Zola's Gift](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3359489).
> 
> There's some blood in this one, and most of the sex is off-screen.

It's all Steve's fault that the Howlers were caught with their pants down, literally. One moment they were relaxing by a creek, with Steve working his usual lunch shift, and the next moment they had guns to their backs and were staring down the long barrel of one of those HYDRA tanks that could vaporize you out of existence. Well, the others were. Steve had Gabe's cock in his mouth and Dugan's cock in his ass, so it took him a moment to notice why everyone else suddenly froze up. Now, because of him, Gabe and Dugan are in a cell, along with the rest of the Howlers. 

Steve wasn't in a cell. When they pulled him up and off of Dugan's cock, they easily brushed aside his punches and kicks, pushed him back to the ground, and fucked him then and there, in front of all the Howlers. Steve couldn't blame them: he was already slicked up and open. 

The squids had taken one look at him and decided exactly what he was good for, just like all those guys back home who wouldn't give him the time of day. They didn't let him put any of his clothes back on, and made him suck their cocks whenever they stopped along the march back to their base. Then they chained him to the desk in the guards' back room instead of in a cell. 

The message was clear: Cells are for soldiers, and he sure as hell ain't one.

This is underscored by the fact that he's presently nose-deep in a guard's pubic hair as he tries not to choke around the guy's cock. (At least it's clean, and Steve's beginning to think that the Nazis take their Aryan purity seriously.) Steve just breathes around the cock and thinks about escape. At least this time, Sarge is with actual Howlers, so he probably won't have to go crazy, like last time. Will Dernier manage to construct a bomb from stray wires? Or maybe Dugan and Jones will lure some guards in and then punch their way out?

The guard stops fucking his mouth for a moment, and Steve hears it, too: Dugan, shouting his head off from the cell block. Jones and Morita, too. Something's happening. Steve's heart beats faster as he inches his hand toward the Mauser in the guard's hip holster ... but then he hears the thumps of rods hitting flesh and some stray gunfire, and then: silence. Steve's heart sinks, and lets the guard pull him back onto his cock by the ears. Whatever happened didn't turn out well for the Howlers. He needs to bide his time. Wait for some sort of signal from Sarge...

Steve nearly chokes again as the guard picks up his speed. Ah, a squad is marching towards the guard post, and he probably wants to finish before... "Karl! Help us escort the prisoner. You can play with the little toy later." Steve's German is getting better -- Gabe would be proud. Karl pulls out with a slick "pop", hurriedly stuffs his still-hard cock back in his pants, and turns to join the others at the door.

Steve wipes his mouth and assesses at the guards. There's eight of them, and he's sucked off all but the skinny guy with the mustache. They're not giving him a second glance, focused instead on the prisoner that they're escorting. It takes a moment for Steve to recognize the man in the center, and when he does, it's like a gut punch. Steve suddenly finds it hard to breathe. What did they do to Sarge? Underneath the black eye and bloodied face, there is .... nothing. Barnes' shoulders are hunched, his arms slack in the heavy manacles, and his eyes look dead and hollow as he cast a blank look at Steve.

Steve stares back, *willing* Sarge's eyes to focus: to wink and hint at a bigger plan. But instead Sarge's eyes just flickers past him to stare at the wall before being marched away. Steve turns to look: it's the standard bank of photos of Hitler and his top command, with Schmidt next to Himmler on the second row, and a third row of their subordinates. Nothing remarkable, so which leaves Steve to face the fact Sarge did not have an escape plan. Worse: they're taking Sarge somewhere and the Howlers hadn't been able to do anything about it. 

Shit.

Steve sits back down, bare ass cold against the concrete of the floor, and tries to think. 

Sarge needs immediate rescue, and something had just happened to the Howlers. Which leaves... him. Given the number of cocks he's sucked in the three hours he's been chained in the room, there are probably 100 men in the base. Far too many for even the Howlers to tackle head on, much less him by his lonesome. If they weren't captured, the SOP for a base this size would be to sneak in, secure munitions and intel, free any captives, and then find the most explody part of the base and get to work. (As Dernier said with his winning hand at Euchre the other night, "all you need is a bomb in the right place.") 

Well, if Steve counts "being locked in a cell" as infiltration, and discounts the fact that Sarge is ... (no, don't think about that), then they're already done with step one. He's never actually seen the Howlers do the rest of it, but if he can manage to free the Howlers, then they can probably take care of the munitions and the explosions, right?

Right. Free the Howlers. Piece of cake. He's just sitting here butt naked and chained by the collar to a desk. And there's just a dozen or so guards between here and the cell block. If he were Sarge he could probably break the chain with his pinky. If he were Sarge... Steve shakes his head, to banish the memory of Sarge pointing that gun at himself. He needs to focus. 

Steve feels a tug on his chain. "Up, boy!" Oh, Karl is back to finish what he started. With a sigh, Steve gets back up on his knees and starts in on the now-flaccid cock. Karl's key ring jangles on his belt, a mere 3 inches away. And next to that, Karl's gun. Wait. Karl's back, but are the others? Steve tries to remember if he'd heard any more footsteps. If they aren't back, then there's only four to six guards between him and the Howlers. If they aren't back, then they're probably with the Sarge and...No. Stop. Focus.

What was it that Sun Tzu said in the Art of War? Something about engaging with an enemy in the expected field of battle, and then winning with an unexpected strike.

The krauts expect him to be a sex toy, a party treat. So he needs to play into that. Steve lets his gaze wander up to Karl's face, and puts renewed effort into his sucking. Distract the guards, then strike. He's done the distraction bit before, and he's had practice with a gun. Steve slips in a few little moans, and gives Karl's balls proper treatment. That sure gets Karl's attention. Steve feels Karl's grip tighten around his face as his thrusts grow more erratic. Maybe this will work, after all. Steve keeps his mouth loose enough to ride out the fucking but firm enough to give Karl what he wants, and plans. A few moments later he tastes Karl's cum in the back of his throat. One done.

Steve sucks Karl clean, then pulls back and gives Karl a smile. Given his nonexistent dating history, Steve knows not to try for "seductive", but he licks his lips, and tries for "eager" when he propositions, "Do you want another round?"

Karl looks tentatively interested. He looks left and right, as if he's waiting to be chided by his mom or something. It suddenly strikes Steve that Karl is probably younger than him. Seventeen or eighteen? Young enough to still be thinking with his cock.

Steve tucks his face into Karl's crotch and gently suckles Karl's balls. Karl shudders and Steve hears a sharp intake of breath. Almost there. Steve pulls back up and fixes Karl with another smile, and throws a wink in there for good measure. "How about if I do some of your friends while you decide?"

Karl flushes red, swallows, and then darts out of the room. Hook, line, and sinker. 

Now if only his grease tin wasn't left by the river along with the rest of his clothes.

\----

It's Morita who looks up first when Steve creeps up to the cell. Steve puts a finger to his lips, and Morita just raises an eyebrow. He nudges Gabe next to him, who's stooped over prone form. Dugan.

Steve hurriedly pulls the first-aid kit out of his makeshift bag and slips it between the bars. Good thing he took the time to raid the desk in the guard room. Gabe shoots him a grateful look and gets to work.

"Rogers, how the hell?" A whispered question from Monty.

Steve shrugged. Turned out that getting freed was a simple matter of complaining that he can't possibly take Günter and Rolf at the same time while he's chained up, and suddenly the boys were scrambling to unlock him. But the Howlers don't need to know that. "I used the trick that you were talking about, knocked out a coupla guys." Steve gestured to the spot on the back of his head, that Monty was showing Dugan a few days ago.

"Anyway, I brought this." Steve fishes out all the guns he'd confiscated from the guards who now lay prone in the guard post. One for each of the Howlers, and two left for himself and Sarge. A few more minutes experimenting with the keys he'd lifted from Karl, and the cell door swings open. He looks to the others for instructions on what to do next, but finds them looking at him instead.

"Um... Dernier, I heard the guards mention that munitions is up one level." Dernier and Monty nod. 

Steve continues his intel report as calmly as possible. As if Dugan isn't lying on the ground with a bullet hole in him. As if Sarge isn't.... "And I heard some noises down the other hallway -- probably more prisoners." 

"I can get them." Morita says. And then suddenly they're discussing tactics, where to get more bullets and whether Dugan can stay behind on his own. Standing, they're all a head taller than Steve and the words flow fast and urgent over his head. It's clear that Steve's job is done.

Except ... why does his chest feel so tight and hollow at the same time? Why does he feel like some is looking at him with dead, empty eyes? Steve swallows, and gives in to the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. Hefts his Browning and shoulders his bag. "I can get Sarge out while you guys do that," he mutters to ... nobody, really.

Then he turns and starts running back down the corridor, before the others realize that they've been listening to a pro-boy. Before they stop him and stash him somewhere safe like they always do.

Past the guard post, Steve takes a right away from the store rooms and the heavy machinery, and then a left into a long hallway of closed doors. He hears some explosions happen on the floor above him, and has just enough time to duck into the only open door (a bathroom) as a bunch of guards rush past. He counts to ten, and then slips into the room that they'd just vacated.

He hears it first, before his eyes have a chance to adjust to the dark. "Sergeant, 32557038. Sergeant. 32557038...." And then Steve sees him: Sarge, strapped to a giant table, with syringes and needles stuck in him every which way, like the picture of Saint Sebastian in his ma's prayer book. 

Steve runs up and starts pulling them out, and that's when he notices the neat incision lines along Sarge's leg, starting at the knee and working its way up his thigh, each one deeper than the last. The first ones have already begun to heal, but the last ones are still oozing blood. There are matching ones on Sarge's other leg, but vertical. They were.... Steve takes a deep breath, and channels his anger and horror into pulling off the rest of the syringes as quickly possible. Think about it later. Right now, he needs to get Sarge out. 

Sarge is still reciting his rank and serial number, completely oblivious to Steve and the increasing number of explosions on the floor above.

Steve looks at the straps holding Sarge to the table and finds that they're bolted in. He gives them his best tug, but they barely budge. The only one strong enough to break them is currently saying "32557038."

Steve's heart feels like it's going to explode with the next BOOM, but no, he can do this.

"Sarge!" Steve shakes Sarge by the shoulder. The only thing that happens is that Sarge flinches and there's a break between the "325" and the "57". Sarge's shoulder feels sticky. Steve leans in look more carefully, and nearly chokes on the bile in his throat. They'd... they'd taken off a whole patch of skin along his shoulder. Crisscrossed marks long the edges and some sick guy even made the middle of it into the shape of a star.

Steve feels the sting of tears tickling his sinuses, and wills it away. Steve Rogers isn't the crying kind, and there's no time for it anyway. He scrubs his hands over his face a few times and tries again.

"Sarge? It's me, Rogers. You need to get up. We need to get you out of here before Dernier blows up the whole base."

No response. Sarge has probably tuned out everything outside his head.

Another tactic, then. Steve puts a hand around Sarge's face, pats it gently and says carefully modulated voice, "Hey Bucky? It's time to wake up. I need your help making breakfast."

"Mam?" Bucky's face turns towards Steve, his voice suddenly young and hopeful. Then his eyes focus on Steve, and his smile widens. "Steve!!"

Steve ignores his thumping heart and pushes onward. The base was starting to shake with each new explosion. "Sarge, we need to get out, but I can't get the straps off. You need to do it."

Sarge looks down and seems to take in his condition for the first time. Steve watches all color drain from Sarge's face as he turns his head away. "Rogers, you shouldn't be here."

"Well, I *am*, and you need to get up. I know you can do it, you've done it before."

Barnes gives a half-hearted strain against the straps, then slumps back. "Just leave, Rogers."

"No I'm not leaving!" Steve turns away to keep Sarge from seeing his anger brimming over. To make it easier to pretend that Bucky's not his commander. 

"Dammit, Bucky. Quit your excuses. I know you can't remember how it happened last time. I know they've carved you up and everything hurts. I know you think you can't control it but you did just fine fixing my tin. And I... your team needs you." Steve wipes his face some more and tries to find something to do with his hands. Grabs some more bottle and papers and stuffs it in his bag. There's gotta be a way around this. Maybe he should go find the others. Gabe is probably still caring for Dugan, but should be able to help. Together they can probably...

From behind him, Steve hears some loud snapping noises and turns around just in time to see Sarge, bloody and dazed, but sitting upright on the table.

With a blush Steve suddenly realizes how naked Sarge is. He hurriedly takes off the jacket he'd peeled off of Karl and hands it to Sarge. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he takes off his underwear and gives it to Sarge, too. It's from one of the other guards, and on Steve it reaches his knees. On Sarge it'd at least cover the worst of the scars on his thighs. (If only he'd remember to grab more clothes from the guard room.)

Sarge gives him a look. "Rogers, you don't have to... now *you're* naked."

Steve shrugs. "I'm used to it. Besides, I've still got my boots." Good thing the krauts let him keep those, it's so hard to find shoes his size, Sarge had to put in a special order for them. 

The room shakes with the next BOOM, and a few chunks fall from the ceiling. 

"C'mon, Sarge, we gotta go." Steve reaches over and tugs on Sarge's hand, and feels Bucky squeeze back, warm and reassuring.

And Steve finally feels like he can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the bottles that Steve shoved into his bag was the bottle in [Zola's Gift](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3359489)


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 3 days after Steve's daring rescue, and Steve's ready to get back to work.

"...and that's when Sarge just stopped and said, real quiet-like, 'Will you stop shooting my men if I go with you?'"

Steve pauses at the edge of the clearing. It's been three days, and this is the first time he's heard them talk about what happened. Maybe it's because Dugan is finally conscious after fighting off an infected bullet wound. Sarge has been skulking in his tent the last few days, and always tucked in by the time Steve crawls in. The others have been equally muted -- talking in whispered tones and focused on getting Dugan well enough to start marching again. Maybe if they don't know that Steve's around, he can hear more...

Dugan curses. "That idiot, he's worth ten of me, especially since he's the only one alive who's managed to..." Dugan stops, having caught sight of Steve. Of course. They always clam up about Kreichsburg.

"Rogers, about time! C'mere!" Dugan waves an arm as he hollers. Steve shuffles out of the woods, legs numb from tromping through the forest without any pants. Dugan will probably want to go first -- a celebratory suck-and-fuck for finally being able to sit upright. But would that be okay for his health? And the last time he was with Dugan...

"Sir... if you want a fuck, we should probably make sure we don't get ambushed again." Steve goes red at thought. It was all his fault that they got into this situation in the first place.

Dugan frowns, and seems to notice Steve's naked and prepped ass for the first time. "What the hell, Rogers. Just wanted you to come sit. I'm not exactly in prime fucking condition..."

"I can do all the work, sir." Steve hurries to tug at Dugan's pants, only to have a hand pull him back up with a growl.

"Dammit, Rogers, I said SIT."

Steve sits, as gingerly as he could on the rough bark of the log. He's never *sat* next to Dugan before. Sure, the guys fuck him, and sometimes they make some small talk, or request a particular picture to be drawn. And he knows he's always welcome to sit with Gabe and Morita. But never Dugan. When he's not between Dugan's legs, sucking him off, or hustling to get the food heated and the laundry done, Dugan usually ignores him, eyes gliding over like he's some sort of camp dog.

Steve doesn't really mind. Well, he does, but after 25 years of people choosing to speak over and around him, he's learned to pick his battles. 

But now, Dugan is looking *at* him, eyebrows raised in a look of bemusement. "So Rogers, I hear that you singlehanded fucked seven squids to utter exhaustion?"

"It was six." Steve responds automatically, not sure what to make of the situation. Would it be inappropriate for him to get up to put his pants back on? He's technically on shift but no one's fucked him yet. "Um... it's day 3 so I'm finally back on duty and fully prepped, so..." 

Dugan shrugged. "Maybe after. But first..." He handed Steve a cup and proceeded to pour a finger of bourbon from the bottle he'd tucked into his arm sling. "Mission report. I wanna know what happened."

Steve finds himself staring dumbly at the bourbon. Does Dugan want chocolate or cigs in exchange? Or is the point that he wants to hear all the ways that Steve let HYDRA fuck him? Guess it's not different from other dirty stories...

Gabe's soft voice cuts into Steve's revelry. "I was just about to tell Dum-Dum about how I ran into you in the hallway, with Sarge in tow. How did you manage to avoid those squids? I was just a few steps behind you but ran smack into them."

For the second time this week, Steve finds everyone's eyes on him.

"Heard them coming. There was an open door so I ducked inside." They seemed to be expecting more, so Steve adds, "One of the few benefits of being 5 feet tall. Well, that and I have to bend less to suck your cocks."

The guys laugh. Dernier claps him on the back and says something about how Steve's got four fewer inches of height to hide than he does. It's weird, looking at everyone from the height of the log instead of kneeling between someone's legs, or with his head braced against the ground. He takes the opportunity to snag his pants and a pack of cigs from his bag.

"What I want to know," Monty says after taking a cig from Steve, "is how you managed to knock out those six guards. And don't say fucking -- your ass is good, but not *that* good."

"Well, last week you were showing Dugan a move, to hit people at this particular part of the head...." Steve gestured at the soft spot on his skull. "So I got them to unlock me, then waited until everyone was relaxed and had their guard down..."

"Wait, you got that from me?" The cigarette is slack between Monty's lips. "I was just showing off to Dugan, and you *learned* it?"

"Well, I was washing socks, and your thing was more interesting."

The others look at him with new interest.

"What else have you been learning while doing the laundry?" Dugan asks.

Is he in trouble? He's signed on as a pro-boy, he's not even supposed to have weapons. Steve wracks his brain for whether they know about Sarge's shooting lessons. But even if they knew, it's still against orders, and a single word can get him bundled back to London, or worse, New York. 

But he's sitting on the log now. The guys are looking curious, not accusatory. The Howlers have always ignored rules that they didn't like. Maybe ... Steve decides to go for honesty. 

"Well, Sarge has only been teaching me how to load and shoot German guns, so I've been paying attention to how you do the American ones. And between all the supply runs, I've got a pretty good handle on the wires and materials that Dernier needs -- figured it didn't hurt to have an extra set of eyes out for tinder and the correct gauge of wire." 

"I've been teaching him some radio codes." Morita puts in. "Tired of being stuck outside with the radio all the time."

"Yeah, it's something that I can do, to help free up Morita when you're storming a base." Steve stops short when he realized the utter presumptuousness of his comment. "Err... if you think it'd be all right to um... temporarily trust a pro-boy with this stuff."

"Of course!" Monty looks slightly affronted. "If you can learn all that just by watching... Geez, why didn't you tell us you were smart?"

Steve chooses not to point the obvious, and instead shares a look with Gabe and Morita, who roll their eyes. But it's still nice, to have Dugan pouring him more bourbon, and Monty talking about the assertive way he gave directions back at the HYDRA base. ("Forgot he was a pro-boy for a sec there!")

Steve passes more cigs and chocolate around, and reminds himself that this is much better than having them talk over his head. He needs to pick his battles, and Monty means well. Besides, he's long since considered himself a member of the Howlers, even if the feeling became mutual just now.

Dernier starts a card game, and Steve is dealed in. Steve holds back for three hands, and then starts playing for keeps, which earns some appreciative cursing from Monty. Gabe is smart enough to start folding early.

The drinks keep getting passed around, and he's got a small pile of winnings in front of hime when Steve notices Morita adjusting his pants. Ah, it's time for his shift to start. 

He shucks off his pants and sidles over to Morita. "You thinking about your girl back home, Morita? Need a little help there?" Morita blushes, and tugs open his pants. 

Steve gets to work.

Somewhere behind him, he hears Monty say appreciatively, "A good head *and* a good ass. Sarge sure can pick'em. And now the lucky bastard gets him five nights out of six." 

Dugan chuckles. "Speaking of which, is he still moping in his tent?"

Morita finishes just in time for Steve to pull off and volunteer to go get the Sarge. Dugan laughs. "Hurry back -- it's almost your turn to deal."

Steve can't help but smile as he heads to Sarge's tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This leads straight into [Zola's Gift](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3359489)! hee hee.


	7. Some

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the grenade, slightly extended

One of the men pulls hard on the rope, causing Steve to fall face first into the forest dirt. He tries to scramble back up but they keep pulling, so it takes several tries before he's back to keeping pace with the HYDRA soldiers. They're chuckling to themselves, and Steve spares a bit of energy to rage at the bullies. Of course, the majority of Steve's energy is dedicated to keeping up and hoping that the Howlers aren't going to jump in and rescue him. After all, getting caught was his idea. 

The Howlers were on day three of a hunt for a rumored HYDRA base in the area when they came across these two, clearly out on patrol. Steve did the calculations in his head -- there was no good way for a group as large as the Howlers to follow these two without being noticed. At least, not without a distraction. And he was very good at being a distraction.

And Steve's played the role of "lost little pro-boy" before -- more than once, actually. So he makes a few "I got this" signs towards Sarge, gives what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and then tumbled out of the bushes. 

Once they figured out Steve’s role in the US Army (thanks to the helpful illustrative booklet they found in his pocket), of course they decided to “test out the wares”, which involved unceremoniously shoving Steve’s face into the ground and yanking his pants so hard that a seam split. The first guy *did* have the forethought to use the vaseline from the kit in Steve’s pocket, probably because no one likes it dry, and Steve also managed to get enough of a glimpse to check that he’s clean. So he winked toward the nearby bushes and went to work.

Taking HYDRA dick wasn’t any much different from any other cock. Steve matched the man's thrusts and soon the first guy was spent. The second guy, after making the necessary threats about not biting, tried out his mouth. Steve actually preferred fellatio, since it meant he got to do a more up close inspection and he had more control over how fast the guy got off. But he’s supposed to be an unwitting captive and didn’t want to seem too eager, so he just opened his mouth and let the guy face-fuck him until he came down his throat.

Then he put up some feeble fighting as they tied him up and started dragging him through the forest. 

Steve wasn't sure how closely the Howlers were following, so he bumps into some trees along the way, and moans a couple of times to keep the soldiers' guards down. As soon as they get to the base, Steve will find an opportunity to break free using that special wrist trick that Dernier taught him, grab one of their Lugers, and then it's back to the Howlers. For the time being, he just let himself be lead left and right through the forest. So far, not that different from marching through the same forest with the Howlers, except with maybe a bit more falling, planned or otherwise.

They trudge through a dense, seemingly-impassible cluster of trees and suddenly Steve finds himself in a large clearing with bunker opening embedded in a large rock.

Steve swallows hard: there were about 50 HYDRA setting up camp around the door to the underground base. That’s too many for the Howlers to take on at the same time, not while Steve's still among them and not while it was daylight. He tries to imagine the call that Sarge would make: hold and observe. Can't risk all of his men trying to get out a single pro-boy. 

This meant Steve was on his own. Steve hopes that his lucky streak of clean HYDRA cocks continues, and that they're far enough into the encampment so Sarge can't see what comes next. 

It’s all right. He’ll figure something out. It’ll just be a bit more painful than anticipated.

His captors give him a hard tug and he follows them through the clearing. Steve feels the others' eyes on him as he is pulled toward someone who is obviously the leader. The man barely glances at him as his captors salute and hand over Steve's pro-boy manual. Then there's a few short orders barked in German, and the men are peeling off the rest of his clothes and leading him to a tree stump. Someone stuffs a makeshift gag in his mouth, a rope is looped around his neck and he is tugged down to the ground. Oh, there's a metal ring at the base of the stump, rusty and stained with something that Steve hopes isn't blood. As one man ties the other end of his rope there, he feels another set of hands pulling his ass open. Steve tries to arch back to get a look at the cock that's about to enter, but the rope tightens unbearably around his neck, and Steve finds himself gasping.

He can't breathe and his heart is about to burst out of his ears.

Steve ducks back down and takes deep breaths as a cock penetrates him. Wills himself to stop panicking around the constriction in his throat and the searing pain in his ass. He can't afford to have an asthma attack right now. He *needs* to relax. 

Slowly, all too slowly, he feels his muscles relax against the familiar rhythm of being fucked, and the blinding lights in his vision ease. It's okay. As long as they want to fuck him, they won't kill him. As long as they are fucking him, he has time to figure a way out of this.

The ring. The ring in the ground has been there for a long time. Probably since the last war. Maybe he can loosen it. Steve nudges his head closer in-between thrusts to take a closer look, and almost crows in joy. Forget the ring. Whoever tied him there used a slip knot.

The next few men decide to fuck Steve hard, which, while painful, also meant that they were pushing his face into the ground in time with their thrusts. The back-and-forth gives him the leverage needed to loosen the knot with his teeth. 

Now all he has to do is slowly work at his arms and wrists in the way that Dernier taught him, and wait. If he slips out right now, he'd be caught in 5 seconds. It'd have to be a time when the camp's attention was directed elsewhere. In the meantime, there seems to be a few more HYDRA dicks.

Steve's stomach rumbles around the same time that he smells lunch. The man in him smells it too, and starts picking up the pace. Steve double-checks the looseness of the knots, and tenses his arms in anticipation. Soon. Everyone will be getting food, and that'll be his cue to leave.

The thrusts become erratic as the guy finishes. He pulls out with a pop, and Steve feels jizz ooze down his thighs. Steve surreptitiously checks the surroundings as the man zips his pants back up. There's a gap in the trees across the clearing. The Howlers are probably .... Steve yelps into his gag as he feels something hard being pushed into his ass. What did they put in him? If he turns to look, they'll notice the loosened knot, so he tunes in to the banter around him.

"Won't that explode?" Someone chuckles.

"Nah, it's just the handle. Plus, this keeps [....] loose and wet for us after lunch."

"True. He's a good hole." Someone kicks him in the ribs, and Steve can't help a small yelp through his gag.

This brings more chuckles and more kicks. 

Steve bites the gag against the pain and reminds himself "soon," just as a particular boot kicks in him the back of the head and he blacks out.

\----

There's a sharp blinding pain high up along his shoulder blade. Steve tenses and arches away from it, and feels his eyes sting with tears. What? Where is he? What's going on?

A voice mutters approvingly in German, and continues languidly fucking Steve's ass. "That was a good idea, Private. Remind me to [...] this and you other [...] to Doctor Zola when his train [...]." A cigarette butt lands on the ground near Steve's hands, but Steve's got bigger things on his mind: one, he blacked out, which means he's lost count of how many men had fucked him, and two, the officer had mentioned Zola. He perks his ears and focuses on understanding the slurred German conversation being said around him. 

Something about a plane, and Zola's train, and the Project...

Suddenly there's a flurry of orders. The officer hurriedly pulls out, and the wooden handle of the grenade is shoved unceremoniously back in his ass. 

Boots stomp by, and soon the clearing is empty.

Steve takes a deep breath. Right. He had an escape plan. He nudges himself slowly backwards, giving his neck rope only enough to of a pull to free the knot, and not enough to choke himself. From there, he makes quick work of his wrist bindings, and then, finally, the grenade in his ass.

At the edge of the woods, he sees movement, and the call of an American goldfinch. Steve grabs the grenade, tosses on his shucked-off clothes and hustles over to meet up with the guys. 

"Heard some stuff about Zola. I think he's on a train, and the base has intel."

The Howlers look at him, and no one moves to attack the base.

"Come on, something's going on inside -- might be a good time to slip in." Steve tries again.

Finally, Dugan speaks. "Rogers, that was a dangerous gambit you pulled. What if something happened to you?"

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Steve shrugs, thankful that his shirt covers most of the bruises -- he can deal with the cracked ribs later, but if Sarge and the others find out, they'll never let him do another mission. "Besides, you guys do dangerous stuff all the time." He glares at the others. "Come on, you probably won't get another easy opening."

The others stare at him for a moment longer, but finally, Sarge heaves a sigh and picks up his rifle. "Fine. Let's go, guys. Rogers, you stay."

"But..."

Sarge glares at him, and Steve suddenly remembers his rank. "You can risk yourself on your own time, Rogers, but when I say stay, STAY."

"Um... here." Steve wipes the grenade against his pants and holds it out to Dernier. "It's a little mucked, but should still work."

Everyone stares at the grenade and Steve wonders if they knew where it'd been. "I mean... You probably have enough, and the handle's dirty, so you probably don't want to..." 

Finally, Dernier shakes his head and a small smile crosses his face. "Save it for when we come back, Rogers." He looks over at Sarge, who sighs and nods at him. "You can have the honor of exploding the base. After all, you found it."

And with that, the Howlers clap him on the back and start moving across the clearing towards the base. 

Huh.

Steve digs around in Gabe's medkit for some salves and bandages, does a few practice throws with his grenade, then finds a comfortable spot to watch the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... this is the one that started all of this, actually. Here's the original tumblr post: <https://thefilthiestpiglet.tumblr.com/post/127723433083/unapologetic-4f-noncon-trash>
> 
> After I wrote it, I wanted to do a whole series of 4F Steve taking HYDRA dick. Except I needed to explain Steve and Bucky's relationship first, which lead to [His Pro-Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193/chapters/12123617). So it feels nice, to finally have this thing posted, nearly 2 years later. :O!!!


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's distracted by trees. Bucky's distracted by angst.

Steve's burrowed in his bunk, chewing his lip over his sketchbook when he hears a soft chuckle behind him. "Rogers, what have those trees done to you? Spit in your coffee or something?"

Steve's distracted trying finding another spot to add a tree to his forest sketch, so he replies, "No, didn't spit in my coffee. Just fucked my ass, is all."

Sarge makes a disbelieving sound, as if he didn't hear right.

Steve debates making something up, but ends up showing him the pages. "I can't officially include HYDRA guards into my reports, but I wanted to keep track, just in case."

Sarge is still staring at the page of forest scenery, not quite comprehending, so Steve points it out for him. "Every tree is a dick. I was trying to remember exactly how many it was this time."

Sarge's eyes widen in surprise, and then he carefully flips back through several pages of forests.

"That's... a lot."

Steve shrugs. "It looks like more because it takes up more space than my usual ledger." He chuckles points out a particularly small tree. "I drew this one smaller because he had a tiny prick."

Sarge closes the book and hands it back to Steve. "Thanks for showing me that, Rogers."

"No problem. Gotta keep records somehow, right? Although... " Steve frowns. "I lost track this time." Maybe if he could estimate the amount of time he'd been out, and then calculate how many fucks could have happened in-between....

"Steve..." Sarge's voice a soft murmur and Steve feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Can I...?"

"I've still got one more day, Sarge." Steve shrugs off the hand. They really got him bad this time. Maybe he can figure out the number based on his soreness?

"I... I'm sorry, Steve. I didn't mean to..." Steve looks up. Sarge is looking down on the ground and his hand is tucked tightly behind him. "Those other times, when I held you in the night ... you didn't didn't want it, did you?" Sarge looks absolutely miserable, much like the way he did after that night with Zola's "gift", when he just about shoved Steve into Gabe's tent out of some desire to protect Steve from him...

Steve plays back the last bits in his head, and bites back a curse. "Fuck, I didn't mean it *that* way, Sarge." Just to prove his point, he moves in close and lays his head on Bucky's chest. "I'm still a little sore from the other day, is all." Sore and bleeding every time he took a shit. Steve runs a hand down Sarge's side, the way he likes it. "Everything else is fine. What do you want?"

Sarge's entire body shudders as he holds himself back. "Steve... You don't have to do this, it's not part of your job description."

It's almost as if Sarge thinks that Steve doesn't like him. Which doesn't make sense, since it's *Sarge* who refuses to fuck him outside of his shifts. Who only holds Steve after he wakes up from a nightmare....

Everything suddenly clicks. The way Sarge is always so goddamn careful with him. The way that everyone is so tight-lipped about Zola. The way Sarge is afraid of his own strength. 

"Sarge... Bucky," he says quietly, trying to make the name sound tender on his tongue. "The things you do with me... are nothing at all like the things they did to you."

Bucky jerks with an intake of breath.

Steve reaches up and gently pulls aside Bucky's shirt, and Sarge just lets him. "I was there -- I saw what they did to you the second time." His shoulder has long since healed, but Steve still remembers the mark he'd seen that night. He traces a line along where the star was flayed into Bucky's flesh. "And as the resident expert of HYDRA dickery -- you are *not* them."

Bucky chuckles a bit, but Steve could tell the message still hasn't sunk in. He considers for a moment, heart feeling over-large in his chest. He's just a pro-boy. The war's gonna end and Sarge's gonna go back to his parents' shop and Steve's gonna go back to his room with one chair, so it's all a moot point... but if it'll help Sarge feel better... "I've never liked being coddled," Steve starts, and feels Bucky listening, curious at the turn in the conversation. "Everyone was already looking down on me, and so I had to fight. Do everything myself, just to prove that I can." Steve swallows and reminds himself that this is for Sarge. "But you've shown me that I don't have to fight all the time." Steve takes a deep breath and looks up into Bucky's eyes. "You taught me to shoot, to fight. Last week, I made a risky call in the middle of a mission and you trusted me to pull through. You're a good person, Bucky. The way you trust people, and take care of them -- that's something HYDRA can't take away." Sarge's eyes widen and Steve presses his face into Bucky's chest, not daring to see the reaction of the next words. "That's why, with you, it doesn't feel like coddling, it just feels like ... not being alone."

They stand there a moment, Steve's heart pounding in his chest. He can't ... he's never said that sort of stuff, not since his ma died. 

Gently, Sarge raises his arms and holds Steve in a gentle embrace. "Steve...?"

"Yes, Bucky, I want this." Steve whispers, and tries not to think about the end of the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before [this one.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5254193/chapters/12567911)
> 
> And wooo, I'm done?!!!! To celebrate, I've dumped all the text of His Pro-Boy and Off the Books into the correct chronological order with the comics in this (very unedited) PDF here: <https://www.dropbox.com/s/lhwhc8540qlxt2n/4F-long-interior.pdf?dl=0>

**Author's Note:**

> am I still on [tumblr](http://thefilthiestpiglet.tumblr.com)? It is a mystery.


End file.
